Wonderland
by AShrinkingViolet
Summary: Bulla Briefs always wondered why her life started out so tragically. She traces her journey to the house where her family was brutally murdered. Lapis Gero is an arrogant hacker whose bitten off more than he can chew. When their path cross, they realize you can never really run from your past. Inspired by Poppy Z Brite's "Drawing Blood." ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1

Bulla had never seen trees like the ones that passed by the car window in West City. The air was sweet with the smell of summer. She kicked her legs but didn't get very far because of her car seat. The hills they streamed passed, the birds flying…it was all so wonderfully different. Cinnamon Town was going to be different for them. Maybe Mommy would cheer up a little.

It had been a very long few months. Mommy hadn't exactly been making much money on her comics anymore. She called it a creative rut. One that the joints Papa forced between her lips couldn't get her out of. Usually, magazines from all over wanted Mommy to draw for them. She'd only made one comic that month and she'd gotten a nicely printed rejection letter in the mail.

"We're sorry, but our magazine has been filled this month. Maybe next time?"

Papa said that was just a really nice way of asking "What the hell happened? You used to have talent!"

"Bulla, stop kicking my seat…" Bulma muttered. She looked into the rearview mirror. The pale skin around her eyes had grown lax with lack of sleep. There were bruise colored bags beneath her eyes. She took in a deep, shaky breath after talking, color making its way into her face.

She was starting to get angry. Papa's mouth made a quivering line.

"Bulma…woman…it's okay the child is just a little antsy…"

But it was too late. She was already shaking. Already mad. If there was a liquor store, she would've stopped at it. There wasn't, which made the situation all the worse. The corner of her painted mouth rippled.

Just then, the car began to violently shake. Black smoke billowed out of the car's hood. Bulma braked as hard as she could before stepping out of the car and slamming the door, making the entire frame rattle. She kicked the tire before heading off in the direction of the road. Trunks sucked in his lower lip as their father exited the car as well to follow their mother.

"Let's read some comics, Bra, want to?"

Bulla nodded absently, her eyes locked outside the window at the disappearing bodies. Papa was flailing his hands, his mother's face was in hers. Her shoulders were shaking. She was crying. While Trunks tried to distract her with Spiderman's latest adventure, Bulla saw her Mother's mental state scramble like an egg.

* * *

They came back from town with a curly haired teenage girl. Lilly, the red stitching on her uniform read. She slipped under the car with ease. She whistled as she reemerged.

"Sorry ma'am," She said coolly, "Looks like you're gonna need a major overhaul."

Papa's fingers gently pressed into Bulma's shoulder.

"How much will it be to repair?"

"So much is broken…and this car hasn't been in production in twenty years. I can get the parts cheap, but repairs might take a hot second. I can take you guys into town. There's a motel a few miles from here."

Lilly stopped suddenly, her eyes scanning Bulma's face.

"Hey, do I know you from somewhere?"

"Yes!" Bulla wanted to scream, "She's an artist! She's a famous comic artist! All the magazines wanted her to draw for them! She's famous! She's famous and she's my mommy too!" But instead she stayed put, staring at the tips of the girl's boots, her tongue pressing against her teeth.

"No. No way have we met before." Bulma answered icily before headed down the grassy knoll and into Ginger Town.

* * *

The unexpected detour made Bulla excited. When Grandma Bunny used to take her to church, they said that God had a plan for everyone and that he worked in mysterious ways. Maybe they weren't meant to live in Cinnamon Town? Maybe Ginger Town, with its tiny buildings, and river like the big, blue vein in her wrist, was where Mommy was meant to be. She'd stop staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of her. She'd stop crying herself to sleep at night.

They bought a nice airy farmhouse at the edge of town with the money they were supposed to buy an apartment in Cinnamon Town with. There were so many rooms and so many windows that Bulla could get lost for hours upon hours just exploring.

She got inspired. She wanted to draw like Mommy.

She fished one of the torn up sketchbooks from the trash bin and scratched off a bit of dried fish flesh. She sat at the kitchen table. Her mother said drawing was connecting all the nerves in your body to your brain, then to your heart, then to your arm. All your neurons would fire through that one string of nerves and tell your hand what to draw what was in your brain and heart.

Bulla started drawing. At first, it was just lines on yellowed paper. Then it began to take shape. She was drawing Ashlyn Columbine, the smooth talking, cocaine snorting bleach blonde, with a penchant for teasing every man she knew. The blue haired girl smiled at herself. It wasn't the best piece of work, but it was definitely recognizable as her mother's most iconic character. She heard her mother's footsteps enter the kitchen.

Bulma leaned over her daughter's shoulder. Bulla could smell the cheap wine on her lips.

"Wow, kiddo," She grinned into her daughter's soft blue tresses, "You draw a gorgeous whore."

She got more wine out of the cabinet, but it made Bulla happy all the same. Bulma was the best comic artist she knew. If she thought Bulla was worth something, she must've been.

* * *

Papa got a job at the shop Lilly worked at. Bulla didn't remember her face. Just the tip of her boots, and the feeling of her tongue feeling restrained against her teeth. Bulma didn't like it.

"It's just till we get back on our feet, then I'll quit. But we need money. The brats need to go to school. They'll need supplies, clothes…and so will you."

"It's because she's younger than me. She's younger and prettier than me…"

"She's gay."

"Oh is she?"

"I start Monday."

And he did. And he brought back a little baggie of bunched up green and red and brown leaves and stems.

"For you," he handed it to Bulma, along with a handful of rolling paper.

She growled and dropped them onto the table, "Do you honestly think…?"

She shook her head and began to walk up the steps, mumbling curses under her breath.

The family settled into sort of a routine. Trunks would spend most of his time in the town library. Bulma would be hulled up in her studio, pretended to be churning out comics or drinking where she wouldn't be judged, and Bulla would be drawing as many things as possible. At night, after everyone else had gone to bed, she listened to the crickets outside her window and poured over Robert McGee, Trevor Black, Jhonen Vasquez, and Junji Ito that her mother handed down to her. Her Marvel comics collected dust in the corner of the room. She studied her mother's drawings like a good Christian studies the Bible. Under all this, Bulla sought to bury one thing that would bother her years after the fact.

Her mother never leaned over Bulla's shoulder again.

* * *

One night, one could almost feel the change taking place. Papa was working a late shift at the car garage, Trunks was already in bed, and Bulla had stayed up to finish a particularly difficult piece. Bulma wandered into the kitchen. Her lipstick was smeared, her eye makeup had been cried off into black and gray divots in her yellowed skin.

"Bulla," Her voice was shaky, "You should be in bed."

Bulla sat straight up. She'd seen her mother enraged, she'd seen her mother break down into sobs of pain, but she'd never seen her look so…broken.

She tried to give her daughter a comforting smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. She was a liar. Liars went to Hell.

"I don't want to sleep."

Bulma went to the refrigerator. Bulla kept her eyes locked on the pad of paper. A garden. Green grass. Flowers of every color. In the middle, a decimated corpse in a puddle of its own blood. The greenery was happy to feast off the nutrients the human provided. Bulla hadn't realized she'd drawn it, but her hand still grasped the red crayon.

"Of course not," She sat a cup of orange juice beside Bulla's picture, "I almost forgot your juice."

Papa would always force them to down at least a cup of juice a night if they could afford it. But something felt off. Bulma glanced at her impatiently.

Bulla's pudgy fingers wrapped around the cup. Her blue eyes never left the identical ones of her mother. The juice tasted sour on her tongue. All the pulp had settled on the bottom.

"You should go to bed."

Bulla didn't want to. She wanted to stay rooted to her chair. She wanted to ask why her mother was acting so weird. She wanted to shake her mother and yell in her ears to make her snap out of it. She knew something bad was going to happen if she went to bed like a good little girl.

But she did anyway.

* * *

Bulla woke up that morning with a cold inclination. She walked to the end of the hall. Papa was sitting with her back to her, slouching against the wall.

"P…Papa…?"

She touched his shoulder. His body was cold and clammy. She moved around to face him.

His chest was merely a soup of muscle, bone, and flesh. His mouth was still open, teeth discolored with congealed blood. His dark eyes still bore holes into her own, but there was a glassy film over them now.

She didn't notice the warm trickle of urine going down her leg and into a puddle around her feet. She ran back down the hall and ran into Trunks' room.

"Please…please…no…"

Trunks had been stabbed so many times and with such force, that the blade of the knife had broken from the handle. Spurts of blood decorated the otherwise milk-white walls. Bulla saw, with great relief, that her older brother hadn't even opened his eyes during the attack.

Bulla sobbed as she lumbered downstairs. She didn't know what she was looking for. Her mother, maybe? To disprove the aching fear that her mother could've done this heinous act?

Her mother sat on the couch, head in her hands, covered in dried blood. She was sobbing too. It didn't matter anymore, that her mother was a murderer, Bulla needed comfort. She ran to the blue haired woman and hugged her legs as tightly as she could.

"Bulla…" Bulma struggled through her sobbing fit, "Look at what I've done!"

"I know Mommy, we can fix this."

"Bulla, get off me," more sobbing, "You can't love a monster."

"Yes I can!" She screamed, "And I will!"

Bulma shoved her into the coffee table's sharp corner. She got immediately afterward, "Oh my God, Oh my god…Bulla sweetie, look at me."

Tears pricked at Bulla's eyes. Her mother became a wet, hot, fuzzy vision of red and peach. She could feel that her skin had been split open somewhere near her temple. It felt sticky.

"You have to kill me," She whispered.

"No. No I can't-"

She took Bulla by the hand and led her to the kitchen. She opened up the pantry and picked out two knives.

"It's either you kill me or I kill you," Bulma said through tears.

This wasn't happening. This was something that happened in the action movies Trunks watched. It did not happen in real life with Bulla and the woman she called 'Mommy' for five years.

"I can't kill you! Are you crazy?" It seemed moot at this point to ask that question.

Bulma cried as she drove her weapon into her daughter's shoulder till the blade hit bone. Through the terrible, burning pain it became increasingly clear to Bulla that she had to do something or she was going to die.

Her mother was going to kill her.

She jabbed her knife into Bulma's stomach-once, twice, three times. She sank to her knees down to Bulla's level. She kissed her daughter tenderly on the forehead.

"Stab me in the heart."

And Bulla did, numbly, like a good little girl.

* * *

They found Bulla sitting between the couch and table, covered in her own vomit and piss. She was numb. She couldn't bring herself to feel anything, even as the social worker picked her up, out of her own mess.

As she crossed the threshold, out of Hell and into the sunlight, she remembered Grandma Bunny taking her to church.

If this truly was part of God's plan, it could only get worse from here.


	2. Chapter 2

_20 years later._

The greyhound stunk of the putrid sweat and ancient farts of her fellow passengers. The bus was a silver bullet traveling through a tranquil night. Bulla was hunched over her sketchbook, her overhead light on. The man in front of her stirred.

Bulla sighed to herself. He'd been a problem the entire trip. He was loud. He'd told Bulla his life story while she tried to draw. Even said that art was a nice hobby, but not a very good 'job.' Bulla was 25 years old. He'd thought she was 15 and hadn't made a career choice. He didn't know that she was selling her art to numerous underground magazines and was budding in the mainstream.

She didn't blame him for the mistake. She had a baby face and naturally unnatural colored hair that gave her a 'young punk' vibe. The five piercings in her left ear and the braided side bangs didn't help. Neither did her unusual attire.

The Gothic Archies murmured sweet nothings through her cheap earbuds as the man turned around. She glared at him, but he didn't notice.

"Do you mind turning that light off?" His voice was wound so tight, it almost caught in his throat. Bulla idly wondered how many cocks he'd scarfed down to get his position; to get so cocky as to tell her how to live her life, but not rich enough so he wouldn't have to take the bus. She watched his Adam's apple bob under his red skin.

"I'm sorry, but I need this light," She said coolly.

"The hell you do!" He hissed. His calm demeanor had vanished through the revelation that his slumber would only be mildly refreshing.

"I need to draw," Bulla's eyes narrowed and her voice was taunt, "It's my job."

"What are you drawing anyway?"

Bulla looked down. It was a man, propped up against a blood-splattered wall. There were defense marks on his wrists. He'd put a struggle before he'd died. Dark eyes, dark hair that stood up in the shape of a flame. A chest that was little more than an open, oozing sore. Curiously, Bulla realized she'd labeled the piece: 'Vegeta Lace.' No, no. Her father had been Vegeta Briefs when he was alive. She'd given him her pseudonym by mistake. She posed her eraser over the words, but couldn't bring herself to erase them.

"Hello! I'm talking here."

"I'm sorry," Bulla grinned and showed him the sketch, "I was drawing my father."

The man's jaw hung open. She was immediately filled with a sick sort of satisfaction. The details were incredibly life-like. You could've smelled the blood and rot and sick if you'd pressed your nose against the paper. He sat back down in his seat.

Bulla Lace kept drawing. A few more hours, and she'd be spending the twentieth anniversary on the soil where it'd happened.

It felt somewhat like a pilgrimage. Every year before this one, the day felt hollow. She'd stay awake all night, make as much coffee as humanly possible, and draw till her hand cramped or her vision grew blurry from lack of sleep.

Drawing was her escape. If she couldn't draw…

She couldn't finish the thought. She'd had dreams of staring at a blank canvas, it was laughing at her. Taunting her. She wanted to smear pencil lead against it, paint…something…anything. But she was rooted to the spot.

Maybe if she went to the house in Ginger Town, it'd stop. Maybe she could move on…get some closure or whatever. She just…needed to know why she survived. Why had her mother chosen her five year old daughter to be her killer?

It was with this thought that Bulla fell asleep, laughing sentient paper and sticky, warm blood across her hands filling her dreams.

* * *

She was awoken by a grimy hand against her inner thigh, much too close to her nasty bits. Without missing a beat, she jabbed a pencil into the offending appendage, much the annoyance of the offender. She had been wearing such a short skirt, after all. She owed him something for being so tempting.

"Bitch…"

"Woof woof," Bulla flipped through the sketchbook, paying no attention to the glare her seat mate had given her.

There was a few sketches of Bulla's own characters: Alice with her matted black hair and love of puffy, blood stained dresses, The Mad Hatter, whose eyes were a becoming shade of purple and green, Cheshire, a woman with a passion for slicing her face open to make herself look like a cat. Basic landscapes, storyboards, notes, portraits, and of course, visuals from the night her life fell apart. Or maybe the night her life began? She didn't know at this point.

She chanced a look at the window and saw the sign: 'Ginger Town, population: less than two thousand,' under the glare of superficial lamps. It was still dark out. She checked her phone: one twenty five.

She smiled to herself, "A whole two hours. Nice."

She'd flushed her sleeping meds as soon as she was set on leaving. It felt like the drugs were polluting her system, making her see things through a dense fog. She'd rather never sleep again, than feel drugged when she was supposed to be awake.

The bus stopped in one of its numerous rest stops. This is where most would go to stock up on Lays and Faygo, but for the fair blue haired woman, this was it. She sat on the concrete. It was cold and unforgiving against her upper thighs. She needed a place to stay, at least for tonight. She wasn't ready to make the pilgrimage yet. Not tonight.

With her mind focused on shelter, she wandered the streets.

* * *

Lilly's Demonias clanked against the floor of the club.

Kids were on the dance floor, getting covered in glitter, sweat, and other not so harmless bodily fluids. The smell of pot was heavy in the air, and Lilly shook her head. Black bob bouncing as she did so. Gone were the days of blonde hair and motor oil, welcome the new age of blue-black dye and the stink of booze and skunk-weed.

She'd been the most patient of entrepreneurs, gathering enough money to buy what had been the tiny rec center and convert it into an all age's club. To most of the people grinding on each other, she was the cool aunt. She was the one who they came to for advice, for a beer, or a joint if she was feeling generous. She let the kids do what they wanted for the most part. As long as she, or the police, didn't see it happen out in the open.

She slid behind the bar just as a lone figure sat down. Lilly looked up and was taken a bit aback. She was used to seeing the bright eyes and drunken smiles of her customers. This woman, with her unkempt appearance and bags under her eyes, surely wasn't from around here.

"Aye, hun, you look a bit ragged."

"While, don't you know how to talk to someone," the stranger grinned and moved a strand of light blue hair out of her eyes.

"Sorry. Take it as a dose of empathy. Are you legal?"

The woman leaned back, "Are you hitting on me?"

"You're sitting at a bar. I assume you want to purchase an alcoholic beverage. I have a business. Can't be serving minors booze…"

The woman snorted, "Are you serious? I saw a fifteen year old throwing up into a potted plant."

Lilly rolled her eyes, "You want something or not?"

"I don't drink…you have any Coca Cola?"

Lilly got a cold can out of the fridge and tossed it to her. More people flooded the club and soon, Lilly was flailing. The keg was running out of beer. She could go to the back and get the spare, but there were some customers still waiting for their food. The stranger's eyebrows raised and suddenly, before the owner could protest, she was behind the bar. The liquid gurgled in its container as if to say, "Refill me!"

"I'll take care of these guys. Is there a spare?"

"Yeah...in the back. Are you sure you can handle this?"

"I worked fast food for five years. I can handle this."

Lilly nodded her thanks and went to get the spare keg. When she returned, the crowd of people had diminished and the blue haired stranger was chatting amicably with some rather disgruntled club goers. Their buzz was diminishing and they needed to hide behind the veil of alcohol. Soon it was set up and the crowd was happy with their drunkenness and mindless groping.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Bra Lace. And you?"

Lilly sat down the cup she was polishing, "Bra Lace? You wouldn't happen to be an artist, would you?"

"Oh…uh…yeah…" Color tinged Bulla's cheeks. She'd never been recognized in public before.

"I know that it's really annoying for an artist to be compared to other artists…but you have a lot in common with Bulma Brief, style wise." Her eyes moved down her body, "You kinda look like her too."

Bulla traced a finger around her soda can, "I've been told that, yeah."

The way she said it, the way her eyes grew when Bulma's name was mentioned, Lilly knew to drop the subject. But still. The resemblance was uncanny. Some part idly wondered…maybe…

"Lilly Machiavelli," The club owner stuck out her hand. Bulla took hold of it and shook it halfheartedly.

Soon the club life dissipated around them. They began to clean up. The only sound filling the room was the radio.

" _One pill makes you larger_

 _And one pill makes you small_

 _And the ones that mother gives you_

 _Don't do anything at all_

 _Go ask Alice_

 _When she's ten feet tall."_

Grace Slick's voice made Bra's skin crawl. It brought her back to the kitchen of that dreadful house. Of the warm sun coming in through the windows, of her brother grinning at her, "Mom would like this song. It's all about getting high to escape your fucked up life."

Bra had looked up from her picture, a girl in a puffy, blood stained dress, "What makes you so sure?"

"What do you think mom does all day? She can't draw anymore, B, she can't even if she poured all the booze in the house down the drain. She's unhappy and she can't cope. She's looking for Wonderland. That's her only escape."

Her only escape.

Bra dropped the broom she'd been using. It clattered to the floor and she recoiled as if she'd been struck by it.

Lilly started, "What's wrong?"

"I can't go to Wonderland…I can't go there unless…and I'm fucking terrified." She could feel warm tears streaming down her cheeks. "I can't stop drawing. I can't go out like she did…"

"Your mother…you're Bulma's daughter, aren't you?" Lilly neared her and reached out to touch her shoulder, "I worked on your car…do you remember?"

"She was ashamed. She didn't want to call herself an artist. She didn't want to be recognized as a failure…"

"Do you have anywhere to go?"

Bra shook her head.

Lilly seemed entirely to lift up. She stood at attention, spine straight, eyes burning with a motherly determination, "You're coming home with me. I won't take no for an answer."

Bra chuckled, "I don't exactly have other options. But you don't have to do this out of pity-"

"Not pity. Respect for an artist and giving shelter to someone who needs it," Lilly wandered back toward the bar, "Just let me get my bag, and we can go."

With a lurch in her stomach, Bulla realized she'd actually made a friend.

" _When logic and proportion_

 _Have fallen sloppy dead_

 _And the White Knight is talking backwards_

 _And the Red Queen's off with her head_

 _Remember what the dormouse said_

 _Feed your head_

 _Feed your head."_


	3. Chapter 3

_**If the first few chapters didn't tip you off, this is a dark fic. There's going to be gore, mentions of suicide and self-mutilation, sex, and drugs. (Lots of drugs. So many drugs.) After this chapter, things kinda fall apart for our gorgeous protagonists. And 17 is a bisexual male. He is attracted to both ladies and men. I'm letting you know now so I don't get reviews asking me, "So…is he like…gay...?" or calling me homophobic when certain scenes play out. (lol a homophobic pansexual. The things straight people come up with. XD) With this, I bid you adieu!**_

* * *

Pale blue eyes opened to a stained ceiling. With a groan, the body beneath the blanket stirred, almost knocking the ashtray over in the process. Lapis Gero's feet hit the floor reluctantly. He ran a dark hand through his long black hair.

His desktop stood as the only beacon of light in the room. Its faint blue light cut a path from his bed, to his computer. A hand fumbled for a carton of cigarettes in a messy drawer.

His body felt as though he'd been asleep for days. Three days exactly, if his lock screen was correct. My, my he thought to himself, tricky business sleeping was. Especially in his line of work. The lighter gave his sharp features unearthly shadows. Cigarette dangling from his thin lips, he walked to the desk. He stepped on papers he'd once deemed important and moved books out of the way with his feet. His apartment was merely a labyrinth of dirty clothes, books, and loose papers with bits of code and unused ideas on them. People who knew him often joked that his less that legal recreational hobbies combined with his messy, paper hoarding way made his apartment the number one fire hazard in Picante City.

He cleaned off his chair and used his neighbors Internet connection. The password was the same as their bank account, and that was the birthday of their first child, who for a fleeting two months he slept with. A small world huh?

He plugged in the USB that held his entire hidden system. Opening up an untraceable internet browser, he logged in to a "Bay for Pirates." Which, for all intents and purposes, was just a forum. But no one wanted to say that it was just a board of discussion. They wanted to sound like a frightening hivemind to the outside world. Lapis didn't get the point. Wasn't the whole idea not getting caught?

He checked a few of his posts. Most responses were memelords spouting out bullshit quotes that they thought were funny. Very seldom was there ever anything of any substance. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that he'd gotten a message.

It was from one of his most trusted comrades on the site. He was hesitant to call them a 'friend.'

"1010101

Lapis, you need to run. They've found you."

* * *

Turles' nights were mostly spent not letting teens into the strip club.

No ID. No titty.

No, that was not his brilliant slogan. It was pasted in the window of the joint, right above the neon sign of a woman dressed in lingerie, moving her leg up, inviting men with dried vomit in the corner of their lips inside. Aside from that, he was a guard. Making sure no one harassed the dancers.

He never understood what made women so appealing. Was it the boobs? It was probably the boobs. That's what Lapis looked at most often on women.

Did Lapis like women…? Like…like…like them? He'd seen him pick up both genders at bars. The ratio was only slightly in favor of long legs, short skirts, and cleavage.

He'd slept with men and women, but for him, there were no emotions attached. For Lapis, sex was a biological need. You didn't get married to every steak you ate. You didn't stay with every toilet you pissed in. And you never fucked the same person twice.

Was it simply just the convenience? If he couldn't find a woman, was a man just the second best thing to a wank?

He loved Lapis. And it was gross. And it pissed him off. And he'd tried getting over it, but the feeling never left.

It wasn't like the blue eyed man was oblivious. He'd kissed him once and Lapis tensed up as if he'd been stabbed.

"No…shit…Turles, I like you."

"Well, if you like me then-"

"Turles, that's exactly why we can't fuck. I like you. If we have sex that means I can't speak to you again."

"Why? Since when did you enforce these bullshit rules?"

"You ever notice I never have the same people over? You can't love someone and fuck them. You have to keep those two things separate."

"Lapis, I won't hurt you."

"It's not me that I'm worried about."

Turles dropped the conversation and turned his attention back to Leatherface chopping up screaming B-rated actresses. All the while, feeling a coldness in his chest.

Why did he do this to him? Why was he so paranoid? All Turles wanted was to love him.

Was that really so much to ask?

* * *

On his cigarette break, Turles felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. A call from, speak of the devil, Lapis.

"Hello?"

"Hey…you know how you always said you wanted my apartment? Well, Turles, do I have a deal for you, good sir!"

Turles' stomach clenched at the sound of Lapis' voice. It was stressed, but he was overlaying it with a positive attitude. Lapis was a pessimist, so this made him sound even more unnatural.

"What happened?"

"Can't I just give out of the goodness of my heart? Must there be an occasion?"

"Lapis, you are a piece of shit. Of course you wouldn't."

"Oh, babe, right between the legs." Lapis pretended to wince.

"What happened?" Turles said more sternly. Great. Now he was thinking about what was between Lapis' legs.

"I got doxed."

His heart dropped into his stomach, "…What?"

"Some kid wanted to be top dog and thought it would be funny to out me to the Feds."

"What are you going to do?"

"Take my clean laptop, some clothes, some food, and high tail it."

"But…but you just can't leave!"

Oh fuck. He didn't mean to sound so desperate, but he needed Lapis. What was he going to do without him? Who would be spend his Saturday nights with? Drinking, smoking pot, and watching all the world's shittiest horror movies?

"It's either I leave on my own terms or I get taken out by force. I don't want to share a room with Bubba. I hear he's rather touchy-feely."

Turles couldn't contain his snort. Even now, Lapis was acting like the asshole that he loved.

"I won't go until I can say goodbye to you correctly. How fucked up would it be for me to just leave without talking to you, at least, face to face?"

He cares about me, Turles thought. Some fleeting thought saw Lapis move in with him. Date him. Love him. But he knew that couldn't happen. Not now.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

* * *

When Turles got there, Lapis' was in the parking lot, packing up the back of his truck. His eyes were wild and his hair was un brushed. The darkness around was hole punched with streetlights.

"This is all just a fun little game of hide and seek for you, isn't it?"

Lapis laughed, a genuine 'I couldn't give less of a shit' laugh.

"A little yeah," He moved a box, "I'll be like Bonnie and Cylde….only without Bonnie."

"And without the prison rape."

Lapis snorted, "Hopefully."

The two faced each other now. Lapis' face fell. Turles looked him over and tried to drink in all of him.

This good be the last night he saw him. He wanted to remember everything. Lapis' lean muscular body, soft, straight black hair, his olive colored skin. His was as tall as Turles was muscular. How many times had Lapis hit his head on a doorway on his way in? How many times had Turles laughed at him?

He wanted to smack himself. Lapis wasn't even gone yet, and he was already getting nostalgic. Honestly, at times he could be such a girl.

During his internal monologue, he didn't notice Lapis inching closer to him. His breath hitched a little when he felt Lapis' fingers in his hair. Before he could ask a question, a warm mouth closed over his own.

Goosebumps exploded all over his skin. The tip of Lapis' tongue touching his own, the sweet smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth. A warmth pooled in his core and slithered downward. His blood ran hot. He wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment forever.

Lapis moved away way too quickly, "I'll see ya, Turles."

But he couldn't reply. He was mute as he watched Lapis' truck become smaller and smaller in the distance.


	4. Chapter 4

**This is rambly and terrible. I rewrote it no less than five times and I'm still unhappy with it. But I'm pissed and angry and said fuck it and posted it anyway. Kiss my ass bitch, I'm immortal!**

* * *

Bulla woke up on a soft velveteen sofa. Her own drool had plastered her hair to her jaw. On the kitchen table was her pink Jansport. With a sniff and a wince, Bulla sighed, "Yep, definitely need to shower."

Grabbing some clean clothes, Bulla decided to check in on her temporary housemate. Lilly was fast asleep, clutching a pillow to her chest. She was probably the only person Bulla knew that actually wore a pajama set to bed. It was black, covered in hot pink bats and wide-eyed voodoo dolls. Bulla grinned. She reminded her of her mother before the alcohol pickled her into insanity. Oddly enough, it didn't hurt her to think about. There was almost a warmth in her chest. Maybe that's what all those fucknut psychologists were talking about.

Closure.

Bulla stepped into the shower, letting scalding hot water melt the tension in her muscles. Sleeping in a bus seat one night and a couch the next couldn't be good for one's spine. Lilly's lavender-scented shampoo was somehow strong enough to penetrate the gel she used in her hair. Once she stepped onto the bathmat, it stood straight up like a hedgehog's quills. She mentally chided herself for not getting her straightener. With a sigh, she sat her makeup onto the countertop near the sink.

Nonchalantly, she wiped away some of the fog from the mirror. She looked up and had to choke down a scream. Her naked mother was staring back at her. Pale skin, endless blue eyes, and short matching hair. But something wasn't right.

Her skin had a sickly film over it. Her eyes were glassy, but she was still smiling. Her chest was moving up and down in a steady rhythm. There was a giant gash over her heart. It was brown and crusted with dried blood.

"Welcome home, sweetie." In the same melodious voice, she'd used when Bulla came home from preschool.

And then she was gone as fast as she'd come. Bulla dry heaved into the sink, fingers bracing the edges till the tips turned pure white.

* * *

It was because she was withdrawing from her medication. That had to be what it was. Still, she slipped a hand into her unicorn sweater and felt the old scar on her shoulder. It was red and aggravated. She stopped and looked into the hallway mirror, almost nervously.

Despite everything it was still her. Her skin was the color of caramel. She'd managed to coax her unruly hair into two twin buns on either side of her head. Her eyes, her nose, the red curve of her lips, even her hair that she couldn't bear to color; those were all the same as her mother's. From the kitchen, she smelt maple syrup and bacon.

In that moment, she realized she hadn't eaten since she'd left West City. Her stomach made a rather unladylike gurgle. Lilly had already set out a plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Beside them was a mug of black coffee and an opened bottle of brandy.

She giggled when she saw Bra's puzzled expression, "Food is yours, booze is mine."

"It's like nine in the morning!"

She poured the alcohol into her own mug, "Tastes terrible, but it perks ya up."

Bra scarfed down most of the food in the time it took Lilly to drink her coffee. The only remnants were a pool of maple syrup, which Bra dabbed at in a mockery of feminity with a piece of brunt toast.

"Wow, never seen a lady eat so fast."

"High metabolism," Bulla said simply.

A thick silence filled the room. Lilly broke it with a sigh and a look of weary curiosity, "Can I ask you something?"

Bulla hated the foreboding she got whenever someone asked her that she'd be much more comfortable if they asked for a turn with her ass or inquiring if they could gut her and sell her organs.

"Sure," Her eyes never left her plate.

"Why are you here?"

A rock sank into Bulla's stomach. She wanted nothing more than to run but she was rooted to the spot.

"I mean, if I've seen through what you have, I would've run as far as I could."

"I guess…I guess I just want to know why I lived."

Another silence filled the room. Bulla started becoming antsy.

"I'm going to the club. Gotta clean up after last night." Her eyes were soft when she glanced at Bulla, almost motherly, "Are you gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Bulla mumbled, "I gotta go somewhere anyway."

Lilly stole another worried glance over her shoulder as she walked to the door, "I know why you lived, Bulla. Because you're special. Remember that."

Bulla let out a long sigh as she heard the door shut.

"You've already visited me; why don't I visit you?"

* * *

The walk to the cemetery was oddly relaxing. The air was sweet with the promise of Spring. The sun was high in the sky, warming her hair. The town was reluctantly waking up. Certainly, she attracted some stares. She was new in a town that rarely saw any fresh faces. She ignored the lingering stares, though she could feel their eyes like hot coals pressing into her skin.

No one but the corpses rotting under the dirt were around once she opened the rusty gate. She was glad for the isolation. After sitting through an interrogation, court hearings, and all things a state must do after a homicide done by a child, Bulla was shoved into an orphanage in the next town over while her family was buried.

She never got to say goodbye.

She walked toward the state appointed graves. The plain tombstones only read their names and the appropriate dates.

"Well, I'm here. Are you gonna jump out of your dirt pit and scream at me?"

She sat on her knees in front of her family. The sun beat down on her back, her mouth was dry but she did nothing but stare. Stare and wait.

She looked over at Trunks' tombstone. He'd only been seven when he died, two years older than she'd been, now she was older than he would ever be. Bulla thought of their corpses underground. Bulma's long rotten limbs outstretched, broken from a plain wooden coffin, to take hold of her family. That family she murdered to keep with her forever.

The only one missing was her daughter.

She laid on her side on the warm, red clay. Maybe Bulma would be complacent for now, but it wouldn't be long before she crops up again.

* * *

"Are you sure you're ready to go?" Lilly asked biting her lower lip, "I can drive you back into town. It's alright, I don't mind."

Bulla looked at the house through the old Corvette's window. Time had certainly done a number. Even in the dark of night, with only a sliver of moon to give light, she could see the state of decay.

"Yes, I'm ready," Bulla righted herself, but her mouth twitched.

"I gave you my number, right? Please, call if you need anything at all. It's truly not a bother."

"Thanks Lilly," Bulla slid out of the car, "You're the best."

Lilly didn't look so sure. There was a panic in her eyes as she looked past Bulla and into the house, "I've never claimed to be religious and I don't know a whole lot about the paranormal," She said suddenly, "But honey, there is definitely something wrong with that house."

Bulla's smile was crooked, "I know," she said quietly, "Please, leave."

And Lilly did. As the house grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, she mumbled a prayer under her breathe.

* * *

The house had become overrun with vines of kudzu. The gross was halfway up her calf. It made her skin itch as she moved up what used to be a gravely pathway. She moved up the porch steps. Each one squeaked with rot. One broke beneath her platforms.

"Motherfuck!" She whispered, trying to wretch her leg free. Pearls of blood emerged from five small cuts. They looked like claw marks.

"Hmm, funny," She mumbled.

Bulla took a step into the house. The kudzu had broken in and made its way along the walls like bizarre decorations. Once white walls where stained yellow. The place smelt like a bizarre combination of ancient ruins and sweet things that grow in the dirt. Surprisingly, the light turned on when she flicked the switch. The electricity still worked.

She moved over to the faucet. After a few seconds of letting murky, black gunk plop into the basin, she gave up. Most of the furniture was still intact. The couch where her mother sobbed, the table where she'd clonked her head. There was a smudge of dried blood on the corner.

"Which means all the other blood stains are probably still here."

She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Apparently, the county hadn't tried to sell the house, otherwise they would've cleaned up. She let herself be moved upstairs by some bizarre compulsion. She had to see Bulma's office. There was a brownish red stain on the wall, where her father had tried to protect himself. Maybe even his children. From a distance, she could still see him, leaning against the wall, mouth agape.

Trunks' room was besides Bulma's office. No wonder she killed him first. Kudzu had broken through the window and spread across the wall, as though feasting on Trunks' blood. Bulla's heart thumped wildly in her chest. This was wrong. She felt like she was entering a holy temple without taking off her shoes.

She left the room and shut the door softly behind her. The inside of Bulma's office enveloped her in a cold sweat. She sat her backpack onto the floor and sat her sketchbook on the desk. Around her were comics that would never be printed and concepts that would never develop. One sketch caught her attention immediately. It was her father's corpse.

Bulma had murdered her husband. Then she'd gone back to sketch him with the same feverish need and loving detail she'd used on her old comics. She didn't want to think about it.

"Well, I'm here," She said to no one in particular, "What do you want from me?"

Just then, she heard the sound of metal hitting the floor. Maybe something from the roof had broken off? She turned around. An old, bend kitchen knife lay on the floor. The blade was covered in what was either rust or blood.

It was the knife she'd used to kill her mother.

* * *

Usually, when one was doxed, they were freaking the fuck out. But Lapis was oddly calm given the circumstances. Big Brother didn't know where he was now. He'd switched his license plate and changed all his information in the DMV's system. It was kind of like a game of chicken, and Lapis had the advantage. He hadn't slept since yesterday, but his body was tuned to long periods of hibernation and even longer periods of sleep deprivation.

His body was attuned to all his strange habits. He was only one he knew who could still code correctly after candyflipping, who still hacked into the National Treasury after taking shrooms. He could be tripping balls and still, what was left of his brain still held onto numbers and their sequence and importance.

He barely registered the sign he passed, 'Ginger Town.'

He wondered how Turles was doing. Lapis was already a terrible friend and a bad person, he didn't want to add shitty boyfriend to his resume. Maybe he and Turles could've been together, if he ever weened himself off drugs and took the government seriously.

But that wasn't going to happen. Without drugs, Lapis simply wasn't a person. If he stopped, he'd be a constantly withdrawing mess, constantly in pain. Very simply put, his bones were fucked up.

Mommy dearest was a psycho. He remembers her in bloody bare feet, stomping the head of the kitten Lazuli had brought home from school. Because it was a black cat and black cats were the familiars of witches. He remembers Zuli sobbing on her knees, the cool scent of early summer and wet grass, and the dark droplets briefly suspended in air before staining mother's olive skin.

Zuli ran off with a man twice her age and half her height after highschool just to get away. She didn't know how lucky she really was. Whenever Lapis wasn't being whored about his mother's circle of friend for money, he was put away in a 2x4 closet like a sex doll. Sure when he got older, he fought back. But before he was 6" and strong enough to rip a door from its hinges, he was growing up in a tiny cubby hole. Even now, with the mountain of medication he was on, his bones ached from disuse from his development.

Emerald Gem had truly been mother of the fucking year. Lapis shook his head of the memory, but became keenly aware that a joint hadn't touched his lips since he'd left Picante City. Hell, maybe a bit before then. Drugs and booze and maybe a quick lay and shower at someone else's place sounded pretty damn nice right at that moment. He was planning on going through this bizarrely quiet little town till a beacon of light twinkled in the middle of town.

Why would a place like this need a club? Whatever. Lapis wasn't one to kick a gift horse in the mouth. He bummed some weed off some kids standing out front and managed to catch a snippet of conversation.

"Is she hot?"

"Dude, she's living in the house her family died in. She absolutely tweaked, does it matter if she's hot?"

"I'd still fuck her if she was crazy," one said, "Crazy girls are usually up to anything."

God, he hated teenagers. He tapped out his roach, making his way through the grinding sweaty bodies to the bar. The bartender was kind of cute, not the type he'd usually go for, but she was okay. Her eyes, while focused on the drinks she was pouring, looked preoccupied with something else. She looked absolutely desperate to get out of there, like an animal trapped in a cage. She looked up and her eyes brightened as though she was relieved.

"Two new travelers in two days," She said in a drawl, "Are you a friend of Bulla's?"

He had no idea who Bulla was. He had no clue why he said what he did next, "Yeah, I was supposed to meet her here but I guess I'm late."

"I'm worried about that girl…I've yet to see if you're trustworthy or not, but I'm a one-woman operation and I can't just leave the bar to check on her." She pulled a big cardboard box from behind the bar and laid it on the counter with a 'thump.'

"She's staying at the house on the edge of town. Place is abandoned, far as I know. Which means no food, no running water, no nothing. I told that foolish little thing she could've stayed with me, but nah. I've packed up some of her clothes, some non-perishables, some bottled water…"

So this was what those kids outside were talking about. Well tonight sure was getting interesting. He was high and about to meet a crazy hermit. Life could be worse.

Suddenly, a hand slammed down onto the counter, "Boy! Are you even listening to me!?"

"Sorry, kinda zoned out…"

"Tell her Lilly sent ya," She looked him over, "Like I said, I don't know if I could trust you. But any friend of Bulla's is a friend of mine. Lord knows, that poor girl needs as many friends as she can get."

* * *

And so, he was off again. The lie had come so easily out of his mouth, he wondered why. He wondered if she was 'absolutely tweaked.' He wondered if she was hot. He slipped out of the car once Lilly's directions and description of the house matched the one in front of him. The door was unlocked.

"Hello?" He called, breaking the odd stillness of the house. Honestly, how many mass murders had taken place in this town that constituted multiple abandoned houses? He knew he had the right one. Box in hand, he slipped further inside.

So where was Bulla?

Just as soon as he finished the thought the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen stepped into the foyer. Her mocha colored skin set off her electric blue hair and ever bluer eyes.

She would've been perfect, if she wasn't running toward him, brandishing a knife.


End file.
